Wolf RPG

the first thing praimfaya notices within the rain that begins its downpour in the wake of the thickening clouds upon the once sunny horizon, is the male's pelage. it is a shade of muddied red that calls forth to her mind henwen. though upon closer inspection as the pale worlida ghosts a few steps closer, she determines that henwen's shade of red is indisputably prettier. it almost makes her jealous ...and curious about where her pale and silver pelage comes from. with blodreina and ingram both gone she knows that now she'll never know. the black smudges beneath her eyes, she thinks, must be a tribute from her father's genes — though this is more of what she tells herself as opposed to fact.

the stranger appears to be slumbering and using the sound of rainfall as a barrier she intends to keep moving ...figuring it is about time she return to roangeda... when suddenly he springs up and hollars. praimfaya starts, head snapping in his direction, hackles bristling as she watches him shake his head. has he seen her? but alas, the worlida is not known for being shy ( to the dismay of those sworn to protect her, she is sure ).

are... you ok? though her natural instinct is to begin speaking in trigedasleng she has enough experience with the wilds she was born to, to know that many do not know the language of her people.

the male appears to praimfaya through the filter of her limited perception, for lack of a better word, disoriented; and for a moment as he calls out to her in a foreign tongue she does not know, praimfaya wars between compassion and the ruthlessness of her broken heart, of the commander of death. he is not kru and thus she is not bound by duty to aid him. not to mention, she is not sure what is wrong with him. the whole situation is a wild card and he may very well be dangerous. help my?, he speaks to her again. help. she understands that word, at least.

she doesn't move: not nearer or further away. instead, she stays stoically in place, frostbound gaze lingering, only to dart up to his ear as he swivels it in her direction in time with his words. his common is poor ...but it occurs to her that so would her own if not for ingram and diaspora. spirits, she wants to rip her beating heart from her chest. it was a compassionate thing, her heart and it aches for her father and her mother, both gone from her now.

to be commander is to be alone... this time it is not linkoln's voice that speaks but her own inner voice.

but to be commander was also to know compassion. the three pillars. wisdom. compassion. strength.

your ear? praimfaya reiterates to make sure what she assumed is right, making up her mind. she ghosts nearer a few steps, cautious, frostbound gaze watching for any signs that his intentions were ill. i'm no healer, the worlida admits. but ...what's wrong? she asks, hoping that she might be of even a little assistance.

ear, the man reiterates for her. praimfaya, feeling — to no one's fault — the stirrings of frustration and helplessness at the language barrier that exists between them, nods. there is something wrong with his ear. perhaps, she thinks, the situation is not so helpless after all. admittedly, their progress of communication is slow but they are making ground and that it something. except ...she is woefully reminded, as she has spoken to him mere seconds ago, that she is no healer.

insek. he tells her and it is, thankfully, close enough to the common equivalent that she is able to understand. the man has an insect in his ear. try as she might, the young worlida cannot entirely keep the confusion from her face. that can happen? is what her befuddled expression asks but she regains control of her visage soon enough and smooths it away as she hesitantly draws nearer yet, as if she plans to inspect the occupied ear.

nevermind that she doesn't have the first clue as to how to aid the poor man. ok, praimfaya says, peering left and then right as if something might give her sudden inspiration, only to look back at him with a terse, albeit contemplative expression. closer now than she was previously, she can hear the muffled buzz of the fly making its home in his ear. what attracts flies?, she asks herself. rotting meat. although, given the famine ( or tail end of it? ) praimfaya doubts there is an overabundance of rotting meat laying about. if lone wolves didn't snatch it up she doesn't doubt scavengers would've.

the only other thing that comes to her mind is a slim branch of a particularly sappy pine she passed not too far from their current position. maybe, she thinks, she could trap it in the sap and lift it from his ear ...but that sounds unwise. like a last resort sort of desperate. hm, she draws aloud, not realizing she's even made the contemplative noise. i'm going to see if i can find some rotting meat. maybe draw it out of your ear that way. ok? she asks him, hoping that he will just have to trust her. to return. to not mess up his hearing ...if her desperate last resort plan needed to be turned to.

the stranger nods and though praimfaya, given how their conversation has gone thus far, isn't sure how much of her words he's understood has to trust that he trusts her enough to not abandon him in what she knows is a time of need. putting that kind of trust forth when they are strangers that don't even know the other's name...well, its asking a lot. if she was lucky, she would find something left discarded by a small scavenger and she could omit the idea of sappy tree branch at all. she's never came across a situation like this — didn't think it was possible — and thus she could only hope that creativity and lazy and/or sickly scavengers were on her side.

stay. praimfaya tells him firmly. i'll be back. she assures him, emphasizing as best she can with tone. and then she turns and begins her search. anticipation works into her nerves as she tests the scents that line the general area of the wilderness, careful not to stray too far.

and then, lo and behold, lady fortune appears to be on her side for praimfaya follows her nose right to the sickly sweet scent of decaying half eaten squirrel. despite the young worlida's misgivings on if he would be enough to free the stranger from the torment of the little beastie in his ear, praimfaya scoops the corpse betwixt her jaws all the same and lopes back to where she's last left him. assuming he remains, fleetfooted steps take her nearer than she allowed herself previously — trusting him not to attack her — as she sits the corpse upon the earth between them and takes a step back and focusing her frostbound gaze upon his ear, hoping that what she assumes is a delicacy to the fly is enough to draw it out of the man's ear.

praimfaya eyes him as he appears to freeze in confusion, the word wat, coupled with the confusion currently dominating the male's visage is enough to tell praimfaya what he means. at least, she assumes given the closeness the word harbors to the common 'what'. rotten meat. fly. she tries to communicate as simply as she can, again feeling that rise of confusion on the barrier that exists between them. it wasn't anyone's fault, she tells herself, again.

thankfully, however, he seemed to clue into her thought process with the rotting piece of corpse. flies loved rotting things, praimfaya had come to learn. she could only hope that the fly in his ear, told to be such by the distinct volume and sound of its wings, also loved rotting things. the young worlida really hoped that she doesn't need to result to her plan b ...which even from its conception hardly sounds safe.

is it working? praimfaya asks excitedly, hovering nearer, forgetting in that brief instance of radiant hope that he probably couldn't understand her.

praimfaya's disappointment is palpable as he informs her that her plan didn't work. she frowns, ears feathering back to careen against the curve of her skull before pushing forward in consideration. she peers left and then right, a soft humming noise vibrating in her throat as she runs through any other plans she can conceive of. the more she gives thought to the sap in his ear the worse of an idea it sounds until she is forced to strike the idea entirely. it is too risky; too dangerous. she isn't a medic and could end up doing permanent damage to him though her intentions are good.

she does not want that on her conscious.

she sniffs around, trying to find something more appalling than rotting meat that might entice the fly out of his ear once and for all. but ends her pacing in front of him with a droop of her shoulders. i don't know what else to try, she admits. i'm sorry.

some time passes and eventually with another apology — assuming the fly hadn't moved — and words of well wishing praimfaya leaves the male and heads back home.